


ash to grey, green to red

by therewithasmile



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Death by burning, Dismemberment, Entertwining Timelines, F/M, Gore, Hansel and Gretel Witch Hunter AU, Mistaken identities, Oneshot, Tense swaps, Victorian Era ish, Violence, Witch Hunts, possibility for a sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Behead. Dismember. Burn.“</p><p>A girl from his childhood - his mentor after several years - and now, his partner in their fight against witches. It’s not a sport, not a game; in the world of witch hunting, it’s more than just the lives of the citizens at stake. Screw up once, and they’re Touched. Forever changed. Shunned as witches, no better than the scum they kill. </p><p>This hunt was supposed to be no different. But the target’s different. And everything Soul’s worked so hard to maintain, for all these years, comes crumbling to his feet.</p><p>(For Soul Eater Reverse Resonance Bang 2015 challenge; Hansel and Gretel AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	ash to grey, green to red

**Author's Note:**

> This was written and published in July for the Spring Soul Eater event: Reverse Resonance Bang! I was paired with the fabulous tumblr user Naimena, and I was lucky enough to bring her ideas to life. Her art is below, within the fiction. 
> 
> Big thanks to the fabulous people who helped read and clean up some of the confusing sections. 
> 
> Please feel free to ask any questions - this universe is one I'm very much attached to. I'd be happy to clear up any confusion!

 

  


**.....**

  


_“We really shouldn’t be here.”_

_“What, afraid of the witches?” She slapped his arm and he winced, rubbing the sore spot. She puffed her cheeks out and crossed her arms, ash blonde hair pulled into two signature pigtails as she pouted._

_“Papa said we shouldn’t be out in the woods.”_

_He laughed. “So you are scared of witches. Or, maybe, you’re scared of the, the-”_

_“- Touched,” she supplied. “They’re the worst ones. Not human or a witch. They used to be human, or so my Papa says, but they switch sides. They help witches.” She suddenly grinned, her hands forming claws as she grabbed her friend who jumped reflexively. “Kidnap us children.”_

_She grinned then, her hands like claws as she lunged at her friend. He jumped with a frightened squeak._

_“Not true,” he responded grumpily, a hand running through his mess of brown hair. She giggled at the motion. His nervous habit, as he was aware. His cheeks flushed. “Not true, Maka-”_

_“- Who’s the scared one now, Soul?” Her laughter rang in the woods as he groaned,pushing her aside with the heel of his palm._

_“Let’s go back, then.”_

_“Oh sorry, what was that?”_

_“Shut up,” he muttered, and he brushed his way past her._

.

He ducks, and _something_ whizzes too close to his face. Air flies past him and suddenly his cheek is stinging. His blood boils under the surface, but those are all things Soul can dwell on later. All he could -- _should --_ focus on now is her. Ten feet away, arms spread wide and a wicked smile on her face.

A screech erupts somewhere beside him, but Soul doesn’t dare to look. Not when the lady -- the _witch_ \-- is staring at him like he’s a delicious piece of meat. Perhaps that’s exactly what he _is,_ to her at least. A tongue darts from her mouth, going in one smooth circular motion around plump lips. It’s not intimidating. If anything, it angers him further. He thumbs his holster, but before deft fingers can draw his gun, something else flies at him, and he twists out of the way.

The leaves part and _she_ tramples in, emerald eyes wide and ashen-blonde hair askew. He doesn’t dare spare another glance -- and she doesn’t need it. He and Maka have been partners for far too long now. It takes barely a breath, a split-second of assessment, before she steps into place behind him, backs pressed, breathing ragged.

“The other bitch is down,” Maka breathes, her voice low. “For now, at least. I couldn’t properly -- y’know.”

 

  


 

“Right,” Soul hisses. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, his skin prickling. He lowers his hand from his head and it flicks to his waist once more. His eyes still locked on the witch, he watches as she shifts her gaze to follow his hand. As if in slow motion, her eyes roll back to his, and suddenly her face mutates - wrinkles mar ivory skin and black hair sprouts from her scalp, false brown falling like string onto the ground; lazy charcoal eyes suddenly _shatter_ , cracks like spiderwebs spreading from her irises --

The knockback kicks, but strong, steady hands catch his elbow. Common practice -- for them anyhow. Maka lets go of him and she swivels on one foot, crossbow already aimed, but the woman is gone. Acrid smoke lingers against singed bark of a tree, where her body had been not even a second before.

“Shit,” Soul mutters.

With the usual groan of wood, Maka lowers her crossbow. It takes not another word as the two swivel once more, backs still pressed, eyes darting from side to side. He cocks his gun once more, balancing his weight evenly on both feet as she’d taught him long ago. He feels her shifting against his body, just a subtle movement as she adjusts her weapon.

A finger suddenly presses against his elbow. Soul blinks. And then he breathes, deeply, the cool of his breath calming and coaxing. His skin relaxes and the pressure against his skull lessens ever so slightly.

Soul doesn’t thank her.

He’s never thanked her once.

.

“Soul Evans.”

He was nervous. He knew he was strong, training on the side had built up his muscles as well as his confidence. Yet here he was, amongst the trained professionals, and he was once again reminded that he resided at the bottom of the barrel.

The woman who’d called him up gave him a once over. “Evans?”

“That’s me, ma’am.”

She shifted just a little to the side. From over her shoulder he could see others - other members of the Witch Hunt Society. He’d heard rumours before: the man with the stripes in his hair - good with guns. The long-haired woman was a borderline arsonist. The woman with the long ponytail - long-range weapon specialist.

“Great,” she said, and his gaze tore back to hers. “I’m your mentor.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I forget you guys don’t like that word,” she droned. “You think you have experience already. Right. I’m your _superior.”_

It took five seconds for him to understand, to register that - of all people, he was paired with _her_. Someone he hadn’t heard of, and he’d heard of _lots_ of the potential partnerships while in training.  Names like Elizabeth and Kilik floated around, foreign ones like Jacqueline and Tsubaki as well. Hers, though, he didn’t know. Even her form was small - lithe, if given that much, but otherwise, unassuming. Nothing in her stature commanded presence; even the other ladies possessed a warrior-like air to them. And of all people, he ended up with her - nameless, pigtailed _her_.

There was a bitterness in her voice, he noticed then, a bitterness he was somehow attuned to even though he didn’t understand it at first. And then he looked closer, saw the nicks and the scars along cream-coloured skin.

He didn’t notice it but she followed his gaze before their eyes met again.

“You’re forgetting your position - who I am, how I got here,” she dismissed. “This isn’t fun and games anymore, being paired with someone like this is a training exercise -- it’s life and death.”

Somewhere in her emerald gaze, he could see stories where she knew _that_ only too well.

Questions played at in his mind but he bit them back and nodded instead. Good. This was what he wanted. This was what he’d been trained for. Just being there, standing where he was, he could feel the flush of blood against his cheeks, the beginning of a stirring in his mind.

His eyes fell to her outstretched hand.

“Maka,” she said.

He reached for her palm with his own. “Soul.”

As there hands connected, something stirred - changed. The nervous buzzing in his stomach quieted, his breathing steadied. There was something familiar about her, yet also something distinctly dangerous. From his perspective a few feet away, he caught some details only present due to his proximity. The bulge in her jacket presumably hiding weapons, the muscles in her arms thick from use, and the glinting of something much less innocent than rhinestones under her sleeves.

“You should thank me for taking in your sorry ass,” she grunted.

He didn’t bother with a response.

.

Something moves in the corner of his vision. Before Soul can react, snake-like vines suddenly sprout from the ground, wriggling and writhing. He faintly registers soft plodding steps somewhere to his right, but he has no time to look. Instead, he focuses on his own feet, leaping back in long strides. With each thrusting vine, he places more and more distance between him and his partner.

His eyes shoot to Maka’s and they catch almost immediately. Her lips curl into a grimace as she sidesteps once more. Leaves rustle near him, and Soul barely manages to twist out of the way of another thorn-laced tendril. Regardless, pain blossoms from his arm. Languid red oozes from the welt, but the stinging subsides as his blood boils once more. This time it’s more visceral, more fluid; it burns within him in a familiar way. His mind reels and reaches for something to cling onto, to the phantom memory of her finger against his elbow, but it isn’t enough.

He presses his palm against his wound, not because it hurts or because it’s bleeding, but to remind himself, to _anchor_ himself _._

_Dismemberment._

_Beheading._

_Burning._

He grimaces and repeats those words again, over and over like a mantra. Each time memories, like pictures, flicker through his brain. The time he’d subdued his target and pressed his knee against her foul head, Maka looking on as he kicked - kicked _hard -_ and the head came clean off. When he’d grabbed one of their arms, Maka on the other, and with a solid wrench and twist, a loud scream filled their ears.

When they’d watched in stoic silence as the pile of limbs erupted in flames -- even then, she’d pressed a finger to his elbow. And it was only _then_ that he managed to rip his eyes away.

Soul grimaces.

Another vine erupts from the ground and he moves once more. Briefly, he wonders if these vines could be torched in the same way as witches, but before he can test the theory, he finds himself back in the clearing he started in. Except now the ground is scored with holes, cavities and indents. He spares three seconds to survey the area, looking for a trace of blonde hair, listening for the sound of her crossbow, hoping for a trace of her- _anything_ , but nothing comes. No vines either, for the time being. Her name erupts from Soul’s throat, despite the pounding in his head and the warmth beneath his blood. Once again he repeats those words:

Dismemberment.

Beheading.

.

His arm ached and smoke billowed from the tree before him. She paced around him once, her nose scrunched.

“Not bad. You’re no Kid, but you’re definitely not a bad shot.” There was a ghost of a smile on her face. “Knockback’s a bitch, though.”

He merely grunted in response as he lowered his gun to reload.

“Guns are _only_ temporary fixes. If you don’t follow through - if you don’t _finish the mission_ \- you can sink a hundred bullets into their bodies for all I care. They’re not going to be dead.” She stopped pacing and leaned against a tree, folding her arms and sticking out her hand. Three fingers held up, she waved them once.

“Dismemberment, beheading, burning,” she listed, each digit lowering with every passing word. “Not fun. But important. If you don’t do it, well,” she shook her head. “Bad things happen.”

“Yeah,” he responded as he rotated his arm once. “They don’t die.”

Another trace of a grin flashed across her face. “No, they don’t. Worse if they’re in pairs, or covens - anything. If you’re faced with more than one, _kill the witch.”_ Her tone suddenly darkened and her eyes grew serious. All trace of humour, whatever _kind_ of humour it was, was gone. “Promise me, Soul. You _kill the witch_.

There was something in her gaze, something he’d sensed a few days back when they’d just met. Stories and a _history_ danced in her eyes, so vivid he nearly forgot how to breathe. But he merely nodded, shallowly, and she nodded back.

“Good. Now shoot again.”

.

_“You went into the woods again?”_

_Her Papa’s eyes were furious. It wasn’t often that they showed any emotion, but this time, they were livid. Angry. Even concerned._

_Maka swallowed and glanced to the side, where Soul only shook his head._

_“Papa, we weren’t doing anything bad, we-”_

_“Maka, dear,” he cut in, shaking his head. “You can’t keep going out into the forest - especially at this hour. Not right now, anyways. We’ve heard things, from - from-” he glanced up to the woman beside him, but she only looked away._

_“It’s not safe out there.”_

_“It’s never safe,” Soul cut in, and the look her Papa gave him should’ve froze him in his tracks, but he plunged on. “It’s never going to be safe, so I don’t understand!”_

_It was then that the lazy, overly relaxed eyes steeled, grew cold and detached. “It’s worse. People have gone missing.”_

_“People?” Maka repeated, her voice suddenly quiet._

_“The man who used to live three streets down?” She shook her head. “The woman who used to bring me- us, flowers? The man who used to drop off our papers?”_

_Her emerald eyes suddenly grew wide. “Sid?” Her voice broke just a little: he used to play with her in the mornings, lift her on his shoulders when her Papa was too busy._

_Her Papa nodded sadly._

_“What happened to him?” she asked. At his silence, her voice grew strong. “Papa, what happened to him?!”_

_“We don’t know,” he responded quietly. But they both knew he was lying. Soul knew what happened to Sid Barrett. He returned one day with different coloured skin, and though he insisted it was him, they’d closed the gates on his shaking body. Soul couldn’t forget the man’s voice, the broken sobs as the doors slammed shut._

_“I’m not Touched,” he’d protested. “I’m not.”_

_._

Her voice erupts from the sudden silence, cutting through the deceptively innocent sounds of rustling bushes and swirling leaves. And then her form comes shooting from the wood; Maka takes three stumbling steps backwards before bounding her way over to him. “Move. I’ll talk as we go.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Limbs already itching to flee, he takes off with her. An unnamed emotion--not quite exhilaration--flares through his veins as they run. With each impact of his foot against the ground, more energy courses through his body, somehow familiar but not nostalgically so.

“How is it?” Her voice suddenly cuts through his thoughts once more.

“Manageable,” he reports back. Maka grimaces.

“I won’t always b--”

“Can we talk about this when we get somewhere else?” he bites. Emotion weighs his words, but she says nothing; and though she nods, he can still trace worry in her eyes. He sighs, an apology on his tongue but her finger presses into his elbow.

He breathes.

And it’s back to business.

“Webs. There were a few where I was,” Maka says, her voice steeled - robbed of the previous emotion. “I’m guessing they were set up by her. If I’m honest -” and her eyes catch his once more, “- I’m not sure _what_ we’re dealing with.”

“Well there was the other witch you got before finding me,” Soul barely manages between his gasps of breath.

“Yeah but -- she’s different.” A hand suddenly wraps around his forearm and Maka _wrenches_. Soul’s entire body stumbles without his volition, but his eyes catch what she sees. His feet give and he hits the ground, but the momentum helps him slide safely through the dirt and behind a small alcove.

Heaving breaths echo in the small reprieve they found. Soul slumps his head against the rock, the sudden cold surprisingly soothing against his boiling skin. From beside him he can hear Maka breathing, and it takes three seconds for her to grab her waterskin and take a long drought. It takes not even another three before she tosses it to him. He raises it to his lips, the rush of cool liquid quelling the fire within his body.

“You - you remember what they called this witch in the town?” Maka says as he swallows, “ _Spider Queen_. Because she traps her victims in the webs - drains their fluids-”

“- Gross.”

A hint of a smile suddenly decorates her face. “ - And leaves the husks behind. We’ve got to be careful. _More_ careful, anyways.” Ragged breaths still come from her petite frame, and despite the sudden rush of emotion he feels for her, what shefelt for himwould always be stronger. “And how about you? This ‘Spider Queen’, she-”

“-I’m fine, Maka,” he barks. If she feels anything - offended, concerned, _anything_ \- she hides it beneath a sudden, hard mask. A reminderthat she’s his superior.

“It’s not _fine_ , okay? I…” And she falters. She doesn’t do that often - he knows her well enough to know that too, but these are their _feelings_.

And as she’d told him before, feelings could wait. Feelings _should_ wait, until they were at least done with the job.

Maka exhales once more, louder those before it. He’s seen her do this on a couple other occasions, when her emotions start to overwhelm her. But with her pushed breath, she relaxes - and part of him envies her. She makes it look so easy. It’s _never_ easy for him, not without her there, not without her touch.

“Five minutes,” she says as her eyes flutter open. “Five minutes, and then we keep going.”

He moves his hand to the cut on his arm, her eyes follow before a finger once more ghosts across his elbow. Small sensations spread from her touch, soothing the fire beneath his skin.

“Five minutes,” Soul repeats.

.

“Five minutes,” she said, and he skidded to a halt beside her. He glanced at her then, but she shrugged him off, instead reaching into her pack to pull out a piece of bread.

“Really?” he groaned as she tore it in two.  She held out half the bread with unimpressed eyes; it took not a half second before he snatched it from her grasp and took a bite.

“I don’t want to overwork you,” she said plainly as he chewed. The bread was soft - still somewhat fresh, somehow still edible despite the rustling and jostling from the fight. “Overworking would be bad."

“So you say,” he said. Something landed in his lap with more weight than he expected; he turned over the waterskin with one hand. She merely gave him another look, and he grabbed it and pulled off the lid.

“You did well today,” she said. “You’re a natural, aren’t you?”

He shrugged as he lowered the skin. To his surprise, she reached out a hand; after a second of hesitation, he passed the waterskin back to her. “We’ve been doing this for two weeks now,” he said as she raised the skin to her lips. “And you’re putting me through my paces.”

The waterskin rattled as she lowered it with a sigh. “Well, we’ve only taken down two. Don’t get cocky. Cockiness is…”

“Bad?”

“Bad,” she repeated, though the emotion didn’t reach her eyes.

They fell into a silence, but it wasn’t a particularly uncomfortable one. He raised his bread and took another few bites, occasionally swapping the waterskin back and forth and taking swigs. Questions swirled in his mind, the same ones he’d had since they’d begun training together. He’d been meaning to ask, meaning to _understand_ , understand the thick emotion behind her eyes and the scars that her own experiences left. But when push came to shove, she’d never asked _him_ anything, and truthfully, he too wasn’t quite willing to share.

He hesitated as she finished off her half of the bread, patting her hands together.  “Have you ever fought them before? The Touched?”

She paused. Thinking.

The silence that stretched only grew more pregnant with every second.

“Touched are… difficult. It’s hard, see, because part of them is still _human_.” She stood up briskly, stowing the waterskin back into her bag. “But it’s generally the same procedure. Dismemberment--”

“-- Behead, burn, I know,” he said as he followed suit. “I was just wondering.”

“Curiosity is good,” she said with a nod. “But I doubt you’d run into many Touched. I’ve only fought one or two myself, and I’ve been in this gig for almost six years now.” She shrugged. “They don’t generally hang around witches. There’s no place for them, really.”

The words hung limply in the air.

“No place for the Touched.”

“No place for the Touched,” she echoed.

.

His breath finally calms, and it soothes the feeling underneath his skin. Whereas it was prickling before, now it is a mere uncomfortable twinging -- annoying but manageable. Soul takes another slow, deep inhale. Relief like water washes over his veins, quenching the thirsty flames that lick at his conscience. He doesn’t realize he’s gulped, but she’s suddenly close, so close he can count the blemishes on her cheek, the facets of emerald green in her eyes. There’s something clairvoyant about her gaze -- there _always_ had been -- but he meets hers evenly. He doesn’t look long; her stare is magnetic and it’s far too easy to _lose himself_ in that livid sea.

His breath comes in as a shudder, yet another afterthought that tingles at the corner of his mind. His next swallow is thick. “It- It’s quiet,” he manages.

She watches him once more, her gaze questioning, then rips her eyes away.

And with that, he feels as if he can breathe again.

“Good,” she says, her voice suddenly cold. Business-like. “Then we should move.”

It doesn’t take a further word for him to twist upright, his palms against the familiar grooves of cool metal. His fingers itch with anticipation, his breathing thankfully regulated and not _boiling_  where it shouldn’t. But there’s something different about Maka, terseness affecting her posture. Tightened shoulders and tense calves -- all her signs, all tells he’s learned to read from her.

She doesn’t bother hiding it either, for a hand goes toward her crossbow. “The witch - not Spider Queen, the other one,” she clarifies, “I- I incapacitated her.” Soul’s eyebrow raises, and it takes another few breaths before she finds her words again: stronger than before. “Incapacitated. Not eliminated.”

“So we may have two on our hands,” Soul clarifies.

A sigh blows through her lips. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” he says. He can’t help it - one of his hands traitorously finds her shoulder, but she doesn’t tense, doesn’t flinch from his touch. He tightens his grip and turns her around to face him, blonde hair following her movement. “Don’t be hard on yourself. She was easy to deal with the first time, even easier to _eliminate._ ”

The worry in her eyes doesn’t quite disappear, but she nods once. Her lips harden into a line and her fingers grasp her crossbow.

He grins.

“Let’s shoot the bitch.”

.

The fire cracked and snapped, flames erupting as he broke and threw in another branch. Beside him, she re-strung her crossbow, fitting a new bolt into the weapon. He didn’t remember when this became _normal_ \-- because after nearly three months of being her partner, starting a fire in the middle of God-knows-where _was_ normal _._ Somewhat comforting, too, if he could permit that much, because for several hunts now she had his back, and he hers, and it was an agreement that came without acknowledgement. Just the knowledge that it existed.

He tossed another branch into the fire before settling down beside her.

Together they stared into the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames thatas they licked and caressed the kindling.

“.. I had other partners, you know?”

Her voice was low, almost quiet. He couldn’t help but to look at her quickly, but her gaze still settled on the fire, reflecting flames in her glassy irises.

“I was a mentor to others before you.” And then her voice grew bitter. “They’re all dead.”

“I _hate_ them, Soul. I hate them - hate the Touched - hate _all of them._ Do you want to know how I started witch hunting?” Her fist clenched, the black fabric beneath her fingertips scrunching under balled fingers. “They wiped out my village. Killed almost everyone. When I- I somehow survived, I thought it was a sign - a sign that I could make a difference.”

“Load of difference I made,” she scoffed, the sad sound echoing in the night sky. “ _I_ killed them, Soul. The first one? He got caught by a witch. My name was his last word. I can’t get his voice out of my head - I can’t _forget that._ The second? I overworked. She just couldn’t keep up with me. She slept one day and, well, she never woke up. And that was worse, so much _worse_ , than the first one - the first one lost his _head_ , for God’s sake - but her? Her death was entirely my fault.”

Her voice grew louder then, a trace of a tear in her eye as she stabbed the ground with the butt of her crossbow. “The third? Grew too confident. Killed one, didn’t realize there was a second. I turned around only to be sprayed by his blood.”

She was becoming delirious now, her voice trilling as her eyes watered. He couldn’t help it: one of his hands reached out to grasp her shoulder but she moved, not against him but more of an involuntary jerk, as her voice suddenly dropped once more.

“And the fourth? I never saw her again. For all I know, she’s dead. Maybe Touched. God, I hope she’s dead, for her own sake. Touched - they just, they just _can’t exist_. I knew a man, he was close to me, used to play with me as a kid. And he, Sid, he-”

_Sid._

Her emerald green eyes burned into his.

It all came rushing to him then.

.

_“We’re leaving, Soul - right now.”_

_It was the dead of night, only two crickets quietly chirping in synchronicity against the otherwise quiet sky. His mother gripped his shoulder, his dad waiting by the carriage._

_“What do you mean,” he said groggily, a hand reaching to his eye and rubbing once. “What time is it-”_

_“It doesn’t matter - Wes, do you have Erika?” His older brother nodded and brushed past him, and another three seconds later, another body bumped past him as well._

_“Sorry Soul,” said the voice - Erika - as she bent down to ruffle his hair. “We gotta go.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Witches are coming. We received a tip,” was his father’s voice from somewhere within the carriage. “We need to go.”_

_“What about everyone else?”_

_Silence._

_“They’ll be fine,” said his brother briskly. Hands suddenly reached from under his armpits and he found himself hoisted upwards, before landing promptly onto a cushioned seat._

_“Wait, I need to-”_

_“-Honey,” said his mom, her voice dismissive._

_“I-”_

_“Go,” said his father, and the carriage suddenly began to move._

_‘I need to tell Maka.’_

_._

Maka.

She was _Maka._

Perhaps he’d always known. It certainly didn’t feel like a revelation: no earth shattering or sudden changes in his gravitation. Instead, only warmth flooded his mind, soothing the itching at the base of his stomach. It was her, it was _her_ ; he’d never told her where he’d gone. He’d never been back to the village he grew up in. She’d survived, _she’d survived,_ when his dad read the paper at breakfast to discover they’d left just in the nick of time - she’d survived.

His hand reached to his head, running through matted white hair.

He paused, words half-formed in his mouth, before he swallowed.

Instead, he rested a hand on her shoulder.

To his surprise, Maka, the tough mentor and superior who could barely handle a single praise, leaned into his touch. She wasn’t crying - no, Maka was too strong for tears - but she loosened, loosened from her tense posture and sighed.

Her finger brushed his elbow, and for the first time, he could breathe- really _breathe_.

She remained for a few moments longer before she pulled away - granted, he’d expected that, but certainly much sooner than when she actually did. And then she met his gaze once more: emerald green, just like he remembered. Her eyes had always been liquid fire, but they were different, aged; no longer innocent or inquisitive. She’d seen too much. Been through too much.

He wanted to touch her, but he settled for her eyes.

.

Everything suddenly slows, as if in water: her eyes widen - fear sets in - her lips part and his name begins to form on her lips - and then she’s gone, a scream in her place, and Soul scrambles to his feet so fast that his nails scrape rock and his own voice seems hollow in his head.

She’s gone. Where she was a second ago is nothing but air. Strength suddenly flows into his limbs as he tears and claws his way from the alcove, brief flashes of pain spark from raw fingers but he hardly cares: Maka, thoughts of Maka and _where did she go_ override any attempts for coherency.

Her voice still ringing in his ears, Soul begins running. He pushes suddenly inflamed limbs to _move_ , _move God damn it_ , panic and fear biting at his heels like snapping jaws as he runs, pushes himself to _run_ , and there she is.

Held by the scruff her neck by way of some invisible force, Maka floats, suspended a few feet off the ground. Her head is down, her limbs dangle, and he moves forward - to touch, to awaken, to _scream_ \- but a chilling voice stops him. Literally. His legs fail and his head can’t even turn; instead he’s left a statue with liquid flame spiking his stomach, each peak growing taller and taller until the scalding fire burns his throat.  

“She’s not dead,” says the voice, “but she’s not sleeping, either.”

First, a leg. Then half her torso, and then - the _witch_. Her face no longer disguised, no longer deceptively young or unmarked or anything remotely beautiful. Long back lines mar her skin - chalk white, both in colour and what appeared to be texture. The woman with jet black hair steps from behind the tree, long fingers extended like claws tapping together.

His blood boils as the witch prowls toward his partner suspended in air. “I don’t understand humans,” she says, even her tone causing chills down his spine. She turns then, spider-web eyes locking onto his. “You actually _care_ for your partner.” And then she looks away, back to Maka, to _her_ , and she snaps her fingers.

Her head shoots up and her pupils dilate. And as expected, it takes her three seconds before she spots him. “Soul-” she gasps, but he can hear it in her voice. Not a plea, not a sound of surprise. It is a _reminder_.

A smirk spreads across black, tainted lips. “Don’t go for your gun again, boy,” says the witch.  “For one, it won’t work. And second,” her finger reaches for Maka, but his partner gnashes her teeth in defiance. Undeterred, the witch continues, “I’d _hate_ if this girl got shot instead.

His blood boils. The anger and the _fire_ has long since shot past his throat and now reach his _eyes_ \- fury. Consuming. Dizzying. Rage and _fire_ filling his ears, and static consumes him. Static, before it cuts out, stuttering, a record scratching.

_Scratch._

The witch’s eyes widen.

“You. You’re Touched.”

Her voice is disembodied. He can barely make out words beyond the stuttering, the crackling in his ears.

_Scratch. Scratch._

Her grin stretches.

“Makes sense. Makes sense you’d care for _this_ girl.”

_“Soul.”_

Her voice is less a reminder. A tinge desperate.

The blood boils - red and hot

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

The grin nearly consumes her face.

“You don’t know what’s going to happen to you, do you, _boy_?”

_“Soul-"_

“You know you don’t have a place in the world, don’t you?”

“Don’t listen-” Maka’s voice cuts off abruptly.

_Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch_

“Why cling to her?”

_SCRATCHSCRATCHSCRATCHSCRATCH -_

Behead.

He inhales.

Dismember.

He exhales.

He can’t see anything beyond her grin, the grin that stretches from ear to ear and consumes her nose and her _face_ until there’s just white - the white of glinting teeth and sinister intention.

“You could do better than her.” Maka’s small body, like a ragdoll, flings aside.  “Than _this_.”

And then, the voice he’d been dreading all along.

_‘She’s right, you know.’_

.

“I have a theory,” said Maka as she lowered her roast back over the fire. He wasn’t listening: his fingers were greasy from his own food as he took another bite. That didn’t deter her though; after nearly a year of partnership, she’d grown used to his eating during her talking. “About the Touched.”

He lowered his meal, licking his lips. By now, he didn’t react to the word, didn’t bat an eye when it was mentioned. He was getting good at it, too. For a while he was able to pass it off as fear, but now he didn’t so much as twitch. “Yeah?”

“After that last one we killed?” She crossed her legs and rested her hands upon her knees. She leaned back thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t surprise me, actually.”

“Surprise you, about what?” he droned, almost boredly. He reached out and she placed the waterskin into his outstretched palm.

“Well, their whole body changes, right? I mean, the few I’ve seen, one had _green_ skin and the other had pink hair-”

He took another slow, deliberate bite out of his meal.

“- So I was thinking, if their physical attributes are affected, what’s to say about their abilities?” She lifted the roast from the fire, the smell of cooked food and smoke rising from the spit. “My dad used to say that they’re in between, but maybe it’s more than that. Maybe they’re…”

“Half witches?” he said incredulously, half jokingly, but the look she gave him silenced him immediately. Panic shot through his body, up through his throat, hot and cold at the same time, leaving a sticky prickling against his spine. “No. That’s impossible.”

“Probably,” Maka responded. She took a bite of her meal, chewing slowly, before tilting her head towards the sky. “It’s just a theory, anyways. But more to the point. If they _are,_ well, _half,_ I wonder. Why _is_ it they don’t stay around witches? Do certain witches… _change_ the way they are? What if they’re slaves against their will?”

He took one last gulp of his meal before chucking the stick back into the fire. “Who knows, isn’t there no place for the Touched?”

She took one more thoughtful bite. Her expression didn’t change as she swallowed. “There isn’t,” she said finally. “Not that I know of, anyways.”

He wasn’t keen on the conversation. He really wasn’t. They sat in silence as she finished her meal. With one fluid throw, her own stick joined the crackling fire.

.

Keening. Loud screeches upon tar as his head burns, his forehead pounds - and the voice. Like scratching on concrete, grating nails against a chalkboard. His vision wavers in and out of focus -- one second he can see Maka and the next she’s a mass of blonde hair, another second later the witch still cackles and then suddenly she’s closer, so much closer, until he can touch her chalking skin and taste her foul breath.

He can hear it too, the tinkling of songs and tunes he can’t recognize, but it plays louder and louder with every passing refrain.

Stop, make it stop.

‘ _It can’t stop,_ ’ says the voice gleefully, _‘and you don’t want it to.’_

Somewhere, a piano crashes; he winces and he flails and he screams for it to stop. He can see the witch’s inquisitive stare widen, before her laughter joins the cacophony of noise in his mind.

But the words that once saved him begin to jumble in his mind, pictures that once rooted his sanity morphing and distorting in his eyes. The head comes clean off but another suddenly grows back, twisting around to stick its tongue past his ear. The limbs come off but thick, black string follows, spilling like waterfalls as they _pull and pull_ to no avail. The burning limbs congeal into one, writhing and twitching in a mass, fingers clutching and grasping towards them as a singular entity.

He yells, he yells until his voice runs raw and he swears he can see her laughing - laughing as the grass around him withers and the piano crashes once again, reverberating in his mind. He can see her head move feebly and can hear the shell of his name on her lips, but he doesn’t know who’s who and what’s what, only the picture of her - Maka - in his mind, before her skin flakes off and her emerald eyes fall out to reveal the black, sinister ones underneath.

There’s two kinds of laughter in his brain, one soft and feminine and the other lower, rougher. Familiar. A reminder of times before he’d met her, a reminder of the times he’d failed.

_‘And so you will fail again.’_

_No,_ Soul spits. His fingers still curl, but the grass disintegrates beneath him. _No._

His hands raise, thankfully of his own volition. But a strange tingling plays at his fingertips, just tangible enough that through the yelling and the laughing and the _crashing_ , he can still feel it all.

_Breathe._

He crushes his hand into a fist, nails digging so hard into his palm they might draw blood. Once again his name and her voice echo through his mind like a bell; and he tries - he _fucking tries -_ to feel her touch against his skin. His elbow, his cheek, _somewhere_ \- but before he can grasp it, the feeling slips like thread beneath his fingers, falling like a teardrop back into the ocean of discord in his mind.

“You don’t belong here, amongst _them_.” Loud, her voice cuts through his mind, parting the rolling waves with so much as a syllable. “There is nothing - _nothing -_ sadder than someone who doesn’t know who they are. _What_ they are.”

He struggles against her voice. Even wills the rush of noise to close in, to cover the land exposed by her words. To cover his insecurities and his fears and _God, he knows what he is._

Everything happens in dizzying motion, speeding and slowing like the ebb and flow of water. Like an accordion playing a mad men’s melody. There’s only one thing that’s consistent: her grin, as it grows even further across her cheeks, until he swears her face is nothing but her smile.

He takes a shaky breath.

She twitches, stutters like a broken record. She’s close again, _too_ close, close enough that the rhythm inside him triples and his bile wells until he’s in danger of puking. _This_ was what Maka had alluded to, had warned him of: this ever consuming _feeling_ as each inhale threatens to bring something else. As spiders crawl up and down his spine and spin webs in his bloodstream.

Her smile grows wider and wider still.

“You’re _Touched_ , boy,” she says, and even her voice sends him into a dizzying haze. “ _Touched_ , meaning you’re all but one of us.”

His body reacts. There’s cackling inside his brain, a voice much more masculine than his, and he remembers his brother, his loving, loving brother, before his hair turned white and his eyes shaded red, before he too was torn limb from limb. He remembers his brother’s screams as they set him on fire, as they _dismembered_ him, _burned_ him.

_Beheaded him._

_‘Thats the fate you face,”_ says the voice, hints of amusement still alive in his head, _‘It’s the fate you always have. Even with her.’_

She’s far too close. So close that when her mouth opens, he can see a spider web gleaming against her teeth, in her eyes -- in fact, her skin is not chalk, but layers upon _layers_ of webs - until something black begins to crawl out from within them -

“Impressive,” she breathes, her breath tickling his ears.

Mahogany - so dark it could be black - dribbles from her lips.

He’s panting. The music, the noise, whatever it is, stutters. Fades between sound, static, and then silence. Of it all, only some of it is clear: the gurgle of her throat, the sudden coughing as black sprays over his shoulder and she curls inward.

Soul grips the hilts firmly, and draws the hidden daggers he’d stabbed in her clean from her body.

.

With a quick flourish, the daggers concealed themselves back into her sleeves. Maka grimaced and kicked the head away from her. “Gross.” And with that, she lit the body on fire.

He was just a few feet away, still attempting to find his breath. It happened so fast -he thought Maka was down for the count and he was done for, the witch was close, _much too close,_ before it turned around to see Maka moving. He thought she’d died - he thought she _died_ for God’s sake - but then she pulled out the blades that, after even nearly a year and a half of partnership, he didn’t know she’d possessed.

She reached out a hand,  and he gladly grasped it and used it to pull himself onto his feet.

“Hidden blades?”

“Kid wouldn’t approve,” she responded diplomatically. “But you never know. They’ll all tell you to keep your distance, love Tsubaki,  that’s her motto - but you can’t do shit if they get to you first. And I’ve learned different. After…”

“Number five?” he said breathlessly.

She punched him in the arm.

He could still barely catch his breath, and now his arm ached as well. And then she gave a bit of a laugh - before he knew it, he was laughing too. Because he’d thought she’d _died_ , and he’d thought he’d be alone again, and -

He had to tell her.

It made his stomach sink, it made him feel dizzy to the point he needed to puke. But he had to - he _had_ to - because if worst came to worst, _she’d_ end him. That, or he could cut away now, and maybe he could face it. Being alone.

So he waited. He waited until the body stopped burning and until they’d set camp for the night. He waited until he’d gathered an armful of wood and met her by the baby fire by her feet. He waited until he’d settled to his usual spot beside her as they watched the fire crackle and snap in their eyes.

He was lucky. She’d opened up to him, but never asked for the same.

He owed her this much, at least.

He took a breath in.

“I never told you what happened to me, in my past.”

Her eyes caught his, so fast he nearly lost his breath once more. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said quickly. “I never wanted to pre-”

“Sh,” he said, trying to hide the hint of his smile as he caught her hand and lowered it. “You never pressured me. Thank you for that, actually. I- I need to tell you this.”

She merely blinked and then nodded.

Her hand still in his palm, he took in a deep breath.

“You want to know how I ended up joining the Witch Hunt Society? Well, my family happened. Actually, my brother’s girlfriend happened. She - she was a witch.” Maka’s eyes widened but he shook his head. “No, my brother didn’t know. None of us did. She hid herself too well. And then - I saw something I shouldn’t have seen. She, she _touched_ him. My brother. He, he’s -”

“Touched?” she whispered.

He nodded. She fell silent, but he didn’t wait for her to respond. Instead, the muted sound of crickets filled the gaps, the cracking and spitting of fire a haunting rhythm they followed.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed finally. Her hand slipped from his and began to trace patterns against his palm. But he drew his hand away, casting his eyes downwards. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - meet her eyes.

“Yeah, well, he’s not the only one she Touched.”

Silence.

“My hair wasn’t always white,” he spat.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he braced himself. He waited for fists, for yelling, even for pain to shoot from his arm as she dismembered him.  But there was nothing, only a stunned silence that he wasn’t sure he liked better or worse. It only stretched, each second adding anticipation and nervousness and say something - _anything_ , damn it - but then, he felt her hand. Not against his own, but at his hair. Then his cheek. Soft, gentle touches - not quite guarded, but definitely precious. Soothing.

“I never knew.”

“I never told you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said firmly. “I should’ve seen the signs. You’re _my_ app- partner. You’re my _partner_. This stuff, this is my fault, too.”

There was a bit of anger now gnawing at his stomach, because _how else could he make her understand?_ “ _You_ couldn’t have stopped my brother from falling in love with who he loved. _You_ couldn’t have stopped me that night from peeking into their room. You - you couldn’t have stopped-” his own finger flew to his chest, against mottled and scarred flesh he’d grown to hate. Where the phantom memory of long, taloned fingers pierced his skin, leaving white hot pain in its wake. As dirtied fingernails and bared teeth were all he could register, amidst the pain and the fire and the _ache_ , like a sickness, that left tides of flame and pestilence to wash over his body.

They sat in silence, the last embers of the fire crackling before fizzing into nothingness, just more smoke to add to the night sky. He could only trace her quiet inhales, only imagine her expression as he stared into nothingness.

“If there’s anything - _anything_  - I can do, please,” she was quieter now, but no less serious, “ _please_ tell me. I trust you. _Please_ trust me.”

He sighed.

The noise in his head, at the very least, had stopped.

“There is one thing.” Her voice was thicker, changed; and it happened so quick he felt a shiver crawl down his spine. “When I _feel things_ , I- I need - reminding, reminding of who I am. And, in the past, I know one thing that works.”

“What is it?” she asked without skipping a beat.

“You touch my elbow.”

And she did it without hesitation, her fingers skimmed along his skin to rest in the small divot of his arm. Even in the darkness, he could sense her presence, her gaze; he was sure their eyes met, and for the first time, _true_ trust filled him to the brim.

.

She’s on the ground, hacking and spraying black against charred dirt. Words are beyond his control. Soul only watches as she clutches her ribs, where more viscous fluid spills onto her fingertips. Her spell now broken, his blood suddenly soothes; the voice fades, but he can still hear echoes in the recesses of his mind.

She looks up once, and for a second - for a split second - she looks helpless. But he knows this trick, knows no mercy, knows not to let the bitch who’d almost _won_ get away now.

He kneels down, brushes her hair to the side.

“I’m not giving you a victory speech.”

“I don’t want one,” he says briskly.

For a second, his fingers hesitate against her skin. Pictures of spiders crawling from beneath the layers of her skin haunt his mind, but he steels his will. It was a hallucination -- it’s not _real._

Even from her spot from the ground, she still manages to grin.

“Think what you want, _boy_ , but I know who you are. It’s only common courtesy if you know who I am, right?”

“Shut _up_ ,” he says as he wrenches her head to the side, exposing her neck. He can see it then, the spot he needs to strike, just hard enough so her head comes clean off. Just enough pressure, just enough precision.

She twists her head, so fast that, before he knows it, he’s trapped in her gaze once more. She smiles.

_“You won’t escape Arachnophobia.”_

“I told you to shut _up_ ,” he growls as he raises the blade.

A glint catches his eye, the sound of a crossbow firing breaks the silence. His head whips upward, and Maka’s frame is pinned against a tree. From where she’d sprung from, he can see a figure slowly approach. Vines - no, _snakes -_ have wound their way around her ankles, trapping her in place, and beginning to ascend further. Her crossbow already shot, he sees the glint reflected in her _own_ hidden blades, but her hacks and slashes do nothing to deter the approaching binds.

_Finish the job. Always finish the job._

She’s there, neck exposed, her expression as if she’s bored. Waiting for it to happen.

The record begins to scratch again.

But he pushes past it, he springs to his feet and throws his energy forward. His guns draw without even a thought, with one spin and a _push_ bullets embed themselves into the snares. There’s a loud hissing as the snakes suddenly disintegrate, falling to the ground like dust.

Maka springs to her feet, and she doesn’t wince as she reloads her crossbow in three fluid motions. And then she leaps away again, as another vine-turned-snake breaks from the ground where she was a second ago, and the blades are back in her hand, ready.

She doesn’t reprimand him over the fact that he’s left a witch on the ground - when one fell swoop would have finished the job. She doesn’t remind him of their unspoken rule and doesn’t say anything as she lunges towards the figure, eyes blazing.

She doesn’t thank him, either.

.

He lifted the load off her arm as she laughed, the sound like the tinkling of bells as they echoed through otherwise grim and dismal corridors. And there’s warmth in his heart, a warmth that had been growing as of late - if he let himself think about it. But he didn’t. He tried not to focus on it because _feelings came later,_ and that couldn’t be compromised.

But that didn’t stop the heat on his cheeks, his own laughs as he joined in with her.

She was soothing. She’d always been soothing to him. From the first time they’d grasped hands until now, nearly three years later, when this _feeling_ inside him had grown. It was several things, several tumultuous things at once; all he knew is that he liked it. Liked _her_. And when he allowed himself the time to dwell on it, liked the way she made him feel. Especially when he compared it to how he was otherwise: the heat and the boiling and the prickling at his skin, the cold deep voice of the Touched that tainted his mind.

She kept him sane. She kept him grounded.

He needed her.

Was this what Wes had felt? Would things have been different had he not interfered that night?

He didn’t know.

But she quelled the raging tides with him, was a light he didn’t know he needed before. She was warm, _embracing_ , a different kind of fire than the one that had been consuming him. Growing within him.

And so he reached out. He swam through the dark thick waves of _everything_ else, toward the beacon that glowed confidently amongst the black. He touched the light - embraced it.

.

She’s flying. Maka is positively _flying_ as she leaps at the figure, a flurry of steel and her own limbs as he hears the sickening crunch of bone. She’s a warrior goddess, an avenging _angel,_ as over and over again she strikes, harder and harder with every passing blow.

The witch on the ground stirs, black blood still pouring from her lip. But then she raises her eyes - webbed irises taut with fury - and she slams a fist on the ground. Branches from nearby trees lunge towards him, but Soul ducks, dodging the onslaught of attacks as his body is so used to - perhaps unnaturally so. He draws his pistols once more, two rounds firing and one actually grazing his target for once, as she screeches in defiance.

Webs fly from the tips of her fingers as he jumps out of the way. Another web shoots at his feet and he stumbles, just for a second, the noise in his head suddenly marcato as his temple pounds. He takes another staggering step until his back feels hers, and the contact is so _familiar_ that he doesn’t need to look to know.

“You okay?”

“Just fine,” he bites.

Her finger skims his elbow once more.

The noise soothes, they leap apart in perfect rhythm. Maka at his side, they fly - and she lands a solid kick into the witch’s stomach, sending her flying back and against a tree. A breath explodes from her body, flecks of black hurling forward as the impact causes an earth-shattering crack to echo through the wood. Without blinking, without a single hesitation, he grabs an arm. And he wrenches, an agony-filled scream music to his ears.

Maka’s slim hands suddenly wrap around the head - the head whose eyes dart wildly to and fro in fear, and her fingers dig, deep creases scoring across the witch’s face. Her eyes grim and her lips pursed, Maka twists.

But her fingers stop before the head comes with her.

_“Let go of my sister.”_

Snake-like tendrils snag Maka’s arms. She thrashes and thrashes, but they drag her back, back towards the outstretched fingers of the other figure - the other _witch_.

And before he can react - before he can _scream_ \- long fingers pierce Maka’s body. Her face freezes and her eyes glaze into shock, her mouth falling open as nothing but a breath blows through her lips.

 

.

Some nights, she fell asleep lightly dozing on his arm. Her head slumped forward, ash-blonde hair spilling against his tanned skin. These were the nights she was completely defenseless: he feared if he moved, if he so much as twitched, he’d ruin the moment- ruin her sleep.

He couldn’t help it. Not when she looked like _that_. When the day had faded to dusk, she no longer had to be tough. No, that all fell away. Especially here, on his arm, she looked young. Youthful. He’d forgotten that they were the same age. Years and years of fighting witches had changed her, had added age where it shouldn’t be.

Yet here, like this, he’d almost believed that she was young. That she was still the girl who’d tug on his sleeve, laughing at his nervousness, calling him Soul as she reached for his hair, all the while emerald eyes beaming into his.

. 

_“I NEED TO TELL HER-”_

_“No, Soul!” his mother cried. Arms suddenly grabbed at his own, pulling him back, restraining him. “We can’t. We have to leave-"_

_“Can’t we take her with us?! She only has her Papa-”_

_“Soul,” was the other feminine voice. “We can’t be obvious. If more than one family leaves, then this would have been pointless.”_

_“Erika’s right,” said his brother. “I hate to say it, but we have to leave people behind. The witches will be satisfied here - they’ll have everything they want.”_

_“I-”_

_“Everything they want, Soul,” Erika repeated. “You do what you can to survive.”_

_“It’s not FAIR.” His voice cracked and small fists pounded against the carriage window, the family saying nothing as the glass rattled in its pane. “...It’s not fair.”_

_Silence._

_“I’m sorry honey,” said his mom, “but life isn’t ever fair.”_

_._

“You’re okay. Breathe.”

Her finger pressed into his elbow. Each word waded through thick waters before they registered in his brain, rooting his conscience a step at a time as he processed them.

“Release your hand.”

And he did. He didn’t notice the circle of dead plants around him, the broken branches that suddenly snapped as he loosened his grip.

“You have guns. They work just as well. Better.”

Her words were like a trance and her touch was like an anchor. Her finger ghosted from his elbow to his hand. Slowly, carefully, she turned his palm up.

“You’re okay.”

She finally came back into vision, large emerald eyes so close to his. Soft, softer than he’d seen them in the past few years. Soft, like how he remembered her to be during simpler days, when they’d play in the woods until dusk faded away.

And then, she smiled. The same toothy grin that he never could shake from his memory, the toothy grin that he’d only seen snatches of here and there over the years.

“You’re okay,” she repeated.

.

He doesn’t hear.

For the first time, he doesn’t hear.

  


Her name is like fog around him, like the dulling pain that numbs the rawness of his throat as his voice rips, again and again, through the same two syllables. Blood spurts from her mouth, deep scarlet red as opposed to black, and something like his name falls brokenly out of her lips as she gags.

Maka’s body falls limp on the ground by the time he can scramble to her.

The other witch is gone. Frankly, he doesn’t care. The world spins and all he can see is red - oh God, there’s so much _red_ \- and his fingers move clumsily, shaking and twitching, to cover the wound. But it’s not enough- there’s too many that tear her clothing, mar her body, contribute to the ever-growing pile of red and _blood._

Her eyes roll upward, and then beyond him, before they lock onto his.

Her voice is like a feather, soft and quiet, only for his ears.

“Soul, _run_.”

“ _Run_?” The words spill from his lips, a bubble of hysteria rendering the single syllable broken and too fast. “Maka - God, I-”

“Soul, _listen to me_.” Her eyes have always been emerald. Warm, passionate, _alive._ “Get out of here.”

He feels hot wet tears trailing his cheeks. His head begins to pound and -he can’t. He _can’t. “_ I haven’t finished the job - I haven’t - I haven- _Maka_ -”

Her gaze is smoldering now, her lips drawn tight as she fights for the power to speak. “No, this isn’t the job. Can’t you _see_? They were never going to kill _you_ , Soul. They weren’t going to kill o-”

“ _Don’t say it,_ ” he spits, but her eyes are sympathetic - of all _fucking_ things, sympathetic - as she lays a hand on his knee. Calms the crashing waves of noise in his mind.

“Get out of here,” she says again. And then her hand grazes his cheek - just once, leaving a trail of fire behind. And then her hand grabs his chin, wrenches his face down to hers. The emerald eyes have only a trace of tears in them, a mark of red in them, and they burn into his own, into his memory.

Just like that, he realizes.

The warmth of her eyes, even as they begin to fade - she’s always _known_ who he is. Maybe she’d known when he revealed himself as Touched, maybe she knew from the day they first shook hands as mentor and apprentice.

“That’s an order,” she breathes.

Everything in him screams otherwise. The voice in his brain cackles. The two witches stand side by side; one bends down to pick up the arm that had been torn off her.

None of it matters. None of it matters anymore.

He doesn’t dare look. He doesn’t dare look down to her, to the red that stains his shoes, to the mass of grey-blonde hair. He doesn’t _think_ , the voice in his brain screams at him and _laughs and taunts_ but he doesn’t _think_ , he doesn’t do anything but run.

Run.

He doesn’t know where he goes. He doesn’t know where he _is._ He doesn’t hear fading laughter and he doesn’t hear growing noise. He doesn’t feel the pain at his ankles and the ache of his soles as each impact wears away, he doesn’t hear the demon inside him, snapping along to the rhythm of his fleeing. He doesn’t feel the burst of power at his heels, doesn’t see the wilted grass and splitting trees as he runs, each stride pushing himself to go faster - and faster.

He doesn’t hear the music, the horrible, horrible music, consuming his brain.

He runs until there are tears in his eyes. Runs until the roots recede from trees, granting him passage. Runs until his own panting joins the noise in his head, the music in his ears, runs until he can no longer breathe.

There is no place for him.

Not anymore.


End file.
